Galatea

In this installment, time passes differently for Ginny and Draco than it does for everyone else. So, during the chapter, three and a half days go by for them while the others only live through one.

Chapter Seven

The Weapon of Choice

It must be strangely exciting

To watch the stoic squirm

It must be somewhat heartening

To watch shepherd meet shepherd.

--Alanis Morisette

The boat pitched in the frigid water. Water crashed against the sides of the small craft and pooled in the bottom. Draco kept an eye on the floor as he rowed, ready to bail if it looked like they’d be in trouble. Ginny seemed oblivious to the cold and wet; she leaned over the prow as though she could make the boat grow faster just by willing it. She probably could, Draco reflected, and he wished she would. His arms and shoulders ached from fighting the waves. He was beginning to feel ill from the boat’s chaotic rocking, and was glad when they pulled up alongside the arm.

He expected her to grab the weapon, and was surprised when she didn’t. Ginny leaned even further over the side of the boat, and Draco lunged forward and caught the neck of her robe, jerking her against him. They both tipped backwards. She fell into his lap, and he snaked his arm around her waist, anchoring her to his chest. “Don’t you ever do that again,” Draco hissed in Ginny’s ear. “You almost went overboard.”

She turned her head to look in his eyes. “There’s no scabbard.”

He lifted his head. Sure enough, the naked blade flashed with each lightening bolt. “So?”

“So,” she said, “the scabbard is the most important part!”

Ginny threw his arm off of her waist and lunged forward again. “Hey!” she shouted at the arm, raising her voice above the roaring water. “Where’s my scabbard?”

“It’s just a hand,” Draco yelled, grabbing for her clothes a second time. “It can’t answer you.”

Ginny leaned even further over the side of the boat, and Draco’s fist grasped air. “It must be attached to something.” She squinted into the water, but the surface, disturbed by the violent rain, was nearly opaque.

“Not necessarily!” Draco said. “Grab the sword. I want to get out of here.”

“Not without the –”

“Now, Weasley!”

She reached for the weapon. Her hand hesitated just a moment, and then she closed her fist around the pommel of the sword.

The hand released the sword and Ginny tightened her grip, not wanting to drop it in the water. A wave of power rushed through her, starting with her right arm and spreading to the rest of her body. Her skin was shining silver again, as it had that night at the hotel, making her a beacon against the black sky. Draco couldn’t help ungraciously comparing her to a lighthouse. If one was going to be stranded in a boat in the middle of a rainstorm, it helped if one’s companion glowed in the dark.

Just then, a tremendous wave pitched the boat. It tipped at a dangerous angle, but for a moment Draco thought they’d be all right, until another, stronger wave came along. Their small craft capsized. Draco heard Ginny’s head crack against the overturned boat before the waves pushed him under.

Draco opened his mouth to shout with frigid shock, and took a mouthful of water. Coughing and spluttering, his head broke the surface and he gasped for air. Then, struggling to keep above the waves, to keep breathing, to keep his numb body moving, he looked for Ginny. She hadn’t resurfaced. Dammit.

He closed his right hand into a fist, unable to feel the metal of the locator talisman around his fourth finger but aware of its presence all the same. He took a deep breath and plunged underwater.

The ring led him right to her. She hadn’t released her grip on the heavy sword, and its weight was pulling her down. He snaked his arm around her chest and kicked as hard as he could, struggling to bring them both to the surface.

While they’d been underwater, the current had dragged them close to land. Draco drew on his last reserves of strength and pulled Ginny’s inert body in to shore, letting the waves do most of his work for him. When he felt sand under his feet, he staggered in the last few yards, then fell to his knees, the rain and lightning still lashing through the air. He dumped Ginny onto the soft sand and bent down to examine her forehead.

A crack of lightning split the sky, and in the flash, Draco saw something that made his stomach churn. Her blood wasn’t red. He turned quickly away and retched, vomiting all of what he’d eaten that day. He’d known that she’d bleed silver, of course, but actually seeing it was more than he’d been prepared to face. It was disgusting, unnatural. He sneaked another glance at her head and gagged again, but his stomach was empty. There was nothing left to throw up.

Miserably, Draco wiped his mouth with his wet sleeve, then lifted his head and surveyed their surroundings. He couldn’t see much in the dark, but the lightning bolts illuminated a building, a ruin, on top of a nearby hill. He thought just how much of his energy the storm had sapped, and wondered if he could walk that far. There was no choice; Draco had to try. She was unconscious and bleeding, and needed a roof over her head.

He checked to make sure his wand was still in his pocket, and tried a levitation charm on Ginny’s limp body. Nothing happened. He must be more tired than he’d thought. Nervous for Ginny’s health, Draco slid his arms beneath her body and, groaning, heaved himself to his feet. Then, holding her as tightly as he could, he took his first, unsteady steps toward the ruin in the distance.

*          *          *          *          *

Draco staggered down the hall, cold and shock making him stumble as though drunk. He held onto Ginny with numb fingers as he lurched along, his shoulder against the crumbling stone wall the only thing keeping him on his feet. She was soaking wet, a dead weight, and he clutched her to his chest, determined not to drop her. The point of the sword dragged on the floor behind him. Doors gaped wide on either side, dark mouths to ancient rooms beyond.

He was desperate. Her head hadn’t stopped bleeding. He kept his eyes firmly averted, not wanting to look, but he knew her wound needed treatment. Draco came to another doorway, and stuck his head around the corner, squinting his eyes against the darkness. It was a bedroom; he saw a pallet with a musty, tattered blanket and few pieces of rotting furniture. Jackpot.

He swung inside and dumped Ginny on the bed. A cloud of dust flew up from the dirty bedcover, and Draco sneezed. As he worked the sword free from her clenched fist lightning flashed outside, lighting the room through a window near the ceiling. They might be in a ruin, but at least the roof was intact, and seemed unlikely to cave in on them. His damp footprints left a trail in the thick layer of dust on the floor. He sneezed again as he drew his wand.

Draco placed the tip to the laceration on her forehead and opened his mouth to recite the incantation, but just then another lightning bolt cracked through the sky. In the brief flash, Draco got a good look at her head, the silver blood on his wand, and gagged. His stomach heaved and he bent double, drawing slow breaths of the stale air. Hoping that the room would stay dark until could perform the healing charm, Draco touched his wand back to her head and sneezed once more, then said, “Medicor.”

Lightning flashed.

Silver blood still leaked from the cut, coagulating on her pale cheek.

Draco frowned. He tried another charm, “Ascelpio,” and waited for the next flash.

That one didn’t work either. Dammit. What the hell was this place?

He worked his arm under her torso and pulled her up. Ginny’s head lolled to the side; her unconscious body shivered. He had to make her warm before she became ill. He held her up with one hand, and with the other he wrestled her arms free from the sleeves of her robe, his hands made clumsy with cold. The black trousers and turtleneck jumper she wore beneath were waterlogged. He eased the robe out from under her body and tore a strip from the bottom hem, then wound it around her head and tied it into a makeshift bandage. If his wand didn’t work here, he’d have to do it the Muggle way, primitive though it may be.

Her head taken care of, at least for now, the next order of business was to warm her up. Drying and heating charms met with the same success as his healing spell. Draco glared balefully at the limp form on the pallet. “Pain in the ass,” he muttered under his breath. “Even Screwtape would’ve been better than you.” She didn’t reply. He shivered too, but had no idea how to heat the room. There was no firewood.

At the next lightning flash, Draco spotted a dingy three-legged table in the corner, leaning at a crazy tilt. “Right,” he muttered. He summoned the last of his strength and threw it as hard as he could. It shattered against the stone wall.

At the noise, Ginny stirred. She lifted her head slightly and looked around the room. Draco heard her scratchy voice murmur, “It’s beautiful.”

“You’re delirious,” he said, bending down to gather the shards of wood. “Lie back and shut up.”

To his surprise, she did.

He piled the wood in the fireplace, but then was at a loss. He tried “Incendio,” but the room stayed dark. Draco groaned. He didn’t know why his magic wasn’t working, but he had to get this fire started, and there was only one other way he could think of to do that.

He staggered over to the bed, nearly stumbling over her sword in the dark. “Ginny,” he said, shaking her shoulder. She didn’t move, but the slow rise and fall of her chest reassured him that she wasn’t dead. “Ginny,” he said, shaking her harder, “you have to wake up. I need your help.”

Her eyes cracked open; she looked at him through her lashes, damp spikes against the purple circles beneath her eyes. Her lips formed the word, “Beautiful.”

“You said that already,” Draco told her. “Listen to me. There’s wood in the fireplace, but you have to set it on fire. My wand isn’t working.”

Her eyes drifted closed, and Draco gently slapped her cheek. “Hey, Gin, wake up. You need to start the fire or we’ll freeze to death. You’ve been shivering for a while.”

“You too,” she said, the words no more than a whisper.

“Yes, me too,” he confirmed, tilting his head so he wouldn’t sneeze on her. Then he turned back and pressed, “Look at me, Gin. Don’t go to sleep yet. You have to warm up.”

She dragged her eyes open and croaked, “It’s wonderful.”

“Absolutely,” he agreed, wracking his brain for a way to snap her out of her delirium. Had she hit her head hard enough to cause hallucinations? He fervently hoped not; he hadn’t the faintest idea how to treat her. Draco lifted her hand and pointed it in the general direction of the fireplace. “Come on,” he said, “just…do what you do. Gin, don’t drift off. I swear, if you do, I’ll make you so sorry –”

He trailed off as her eyes floated shut again, and her head dropped to the side. He released her hand with a frustrated groan. Besides a fire, body heat was the only way he could think of to warm her, but he’d have to work up his nerve. The thought of embracing her, skin-to-skin, made Draco’s stomach roll. He was terrified of losing control the way he had at the manor…she was unconscious for goddess’s sake. He was afraid of how he’d react, of destroying what little trust in him she might have had, of letting his fear stop him from doing what was necessary to keep her well…he didn’t know what to do. Draco sat, absently stroking her hair, avoiding the side soaked by the silver blood, and tried to think of alternatives.

The logs flared to life. He leapt to his feet in surprise, and looked from the cheerful blaze to Ginny, who hadn’t moved. Her eyes didn’t open, but one corner of her mouth curved up in a smile. “Good girl,” Draco said.

“Don’t you forget it,” she whispered.

He stood there, studying her, trying to pinpoint the odd expression on her face. It took him a minute to figure out why she seemed so unusual. For the first time since he’d met her all those years ago, Ginny looked….peaceful.

He wound the blanket, little more than a rag, around her body, and took her robe for himself. He was keenly offended at her current state; the Pendragon deserved better than a torn sheet in a falling down building, but there was nothing else.

Draco pulled a rickety chair close to the fire and angled it so he could keep an eye on her, huddling under her robe as best as he could. Ginny’s lips were still rather blue, and even though she was at least semi-conscious, she was still very cold. If the fire didn’t warm them as quickly as Draco hoped, he’d have to think of something else.

He found he couldn’t sit; he felt restless in this small room, and got up to pace. What’s the matter with me? he wondered. Time was he had no trouble being still, but she always paced when she was nervous or upset, and now he did too. He hated pacing. It was too indicative of lost control. Draco tried to call up some resentment, but he was too worried. He could see her shoulders shaking underneath the thin cover, and decided he had no choice.

He toed off his shoes and peeled off his soaking wet shirt and socks, then, the same way he’d removed her robe, Draco pulled Ginny up with one hand and used the other to remove her jumper. She wore a thin tank top underneath, and he elected to keep that on, more out of self-preservation than anything else.

Then, gritting his teeth, Draco slid under the blanket beside her, wound his arms around her shivering body, and pulled her against his chest. The sodden folds of her shirt rasped against his skin and his shivering intensified. He curled his body around hers and tried to rub some warmth into the clammy skin on her back. Draco braced himself for what would surely be the longest night of his life, hoped that when she woke up she’d give him a chance to explain before she tried to kill him.

*          *          *          *          *

Mike lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, willing sleep to come. He wasn’t successful. First off, he missed Dana. He hadn’t realized how very comforting it was to have a warm body to turn to in the night. Without her the room seemed cold, and much darker than usual. He couldn’t get comfortable.

Secondly, unpleasant sounds were leaking through the wall that separated his room from the spare bedroom. Potter was a very loud sleeper. He and Ginny had that in common. Mike supposed it wasn’t much of a foundation for a relationship, but he figured it was a start. His eyes looked, unseeing, into the dark as he listened to his nemesis thrash around, creaking the bed frame. He wondered if he had any cotton to use for ear plugs. He wondered what had possessed him to open the door for Potter in the first place. Now, two days later, they both had dark circles under their eyes; neither one of them was sleeping well. Correction: Potter wasn’t sleeping well; Mike wasn’t sleeping at all. Letting him in must have been a moment of temporary insanity. But, no…Potter had played a trump card. Ginny. She was the one thing that could compel Mike to do just about anything. And, really, Mike knew that Potter was no more a traitor than he was. It was the right thing to do, hiding him from Malfoy and the Death Eaters.

Mike rolled over and flicked on the lamp, then grabbed a t-shirt from the floor and pulled it over his head with a sigh. There wouldn’t be any sleep for him tonight. There was a good reason he had never actually slept all night with Ginny more than a few times per week; she was just as bad as her boyfriend. Boyfriend. The word, when used to define what Potter was to Ginny, was bitterly galling.

Mike was irritated with Potter, but what could he do besides glare into the night? A person can’t help the way he sleeps, and Mike tried very hard, though with little success, to avoid blaming Potter for another sleepless night. He’d make some tea. It was Dana’s solution to everything. Dana. Christ; he had to stop thinking about Dana, and Ginny, and…well, everyone. It wouldn’t help his insomnia.

He was just pouring the boiling water into a mug when a cry split the quiet night. Startled, Mike accidentally spilled the hot liquid across his hand, and swore violently as he thrust it under the tap, dousing the skin with cold water. There had to be a sainthood for him out of all this.

His fingers were an angry red, but they didn’t look bad enough to blister. They’d just hurt like hell the next few days. At least it wasn’t his wand hand. Thank god for small favors.

Potter shouted again, and Mike sighed. He still had plenty of hot water. He couldn’t very well let his houseguest go on yelling; it might attract unwanted attention if his flat were being watched. If nothing else, if he continued as he was, Potter would disturb the neighbors. Mike would have to wake him, and then pour some tea down his throat.

His bare feet made a thwapping sound against the hardwood floor as he walked up to the spare room and pushed open the door. The sheets lay in a tangled heap where Potter had kicked them off. His face and bare chest were flushed, and slick with sweat. It must be one hell of a nightmare. Just as Mike bent over to shake him, Potter shouted, “Stay away from her!” and lashed out with a powerful fist, catching Mike just below his right eye.

Not expecting the blow, Mike reeled back. He slammed into the bureau, and a small picture frame tumbled off. The glass shattered, and the sound brought Harry back into consciousness. He sat up, eyes bleary and confused, and automatically reached for his glasses. When they were perched on his nose, he frowned. Malfoy had been bending over Ginny, peeling off her jumper…but they were both gone. In their place was Mike, in a t-shirt and sweatpants, sporting a burned hand and the start of a fantastic black eye. He was pulling himself off the floor, and looked pissed as hell.

Mike glared. “Bad dream?”

“Did I hit you?” Harry asked. Mike’s expression was answer enough. “I thought you were Draco Malfoy.”

Mike’s eyes had a murderous glint to them. “How flattering.”

Harry couldn’t keep a note of irritation out of his voice when he asked, “What do you think you were you doing, leaning over me in the middle of the night?”

“You were having a nightmare, shouting in your sleep. I came in to wake you up and ask if you wanted tea.”

Harry felt immediately contrite. “Oh. Sorry.”

Mike wasn’t in a forgiving mood. He gave Harry a disgusted look, then turned on his heel and left.

Harry sat in bed, in the center of the square of dim moon glow that came in through the open door, and wondered if this meant the offer of tea was rescinded. He’d like some tea; Mrs. Weasley kept Mike well supplied with her special blend, and Harry thought that the connection with the only mother he’d ever known might help shake the terrible cold from his body. What had he been dreaming? Malfoy, shirtless and shoeless, was peeling Ginny’s clothes off. Ginny was…he paused, and reached tentatively into the link. There was darkness on the other side. He didn’t know where she was, but it certainly wasn’t in this world. Harry could have laughed with relief. If she was in the Otherworld, she was finally, finally safe from Malfoy.

He put a t-shirt on over his pajama pants, and wandered into the dark kitchen. Mike stood at the sink, running cold water over his bare hand, muttering under his breath.

“Are you talking to yourself?” Harry asked.

“I’m certainly not talking to you,” Mike snapped.

“I said I’m sorry. What more do you want?”

Mike didn’t reply. He pulled his hand out of the water, took up his own mug of tea, and sat down at the kitchen table, glaring straight ahead. Harry saw, though, that he’d left enough hot water in the kettle for another cup.

Mike watched Harry make up his own mug, then scowled when Harry took the chair across from him. They sipped their tea in silence. Finally, Harry asked, “What’s the matter with you? I apologized. It was an accident. It’s nothing a healing charm won’t fix.”

“Forgive me for being pissed off when someone hits me in the face and then says he’s mistaken me for Draco Malfoy,” Mike said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “What were you doing, dreaming about him?”

“He was leaning over Ginny. He was…I mean, I think he was…um…”

“Spit it out.”

“He could’ve been taking advantage of her.”

Mike set his mug down and looked at Harry carefully. Harry had the creepy feeling that the young man’s sharp blue eyes could see right through him, even in the dark. “Oh?” was all that Mike said, an entire paragraph’s worth of meaning packed into that one finely tuned syllable.

“I hate him, and I hate the thought of –”

“It was just a dream,” Mike interrupted.

“It seemed real.”

“I thought you only have real dreams about You-Know-Who.”

Harry shrugged.

Mike took up his mug again, and they lapsed into tense silence.

“I’m worried about her,” they both said at once.

They looked at each other, startled. Then Mike gave a wry smile. “If you were Ron, I’d say you owe me a drink for saying the same thing at the same time.”

“What?” Harry asked, his brow furrowing. It distorted the scar, and Mike grimaced as he explained, “It’s something we’ve done since we were kids. If we say the same thing at the same time, one has to get the other a drink.”

“A drink of what?”

“Pumpkin juice, when we were little. Butterbeer in school. Now…I don’t know. Whatever the other person wants, I suppose.”

Harry looked down into his empty mug. “What do you want?”

Mike slid his own mug across the table. “More tea.”

Harry got up, uncomplaining, and refilled the cups with hot water and fresh tea leaves. As he sat down, he said, “I’m worried about Ron too, and Hermione. They don’t know whether I’m alive or dead. I wish I could contact them –”

“Owls can be intercepted,” Mike interrupted in a know-it-all tone. “And Floo is hardly secure. Anyone could be listening in.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed glumly. “Still, I wish there was some way to let them know that I’m okay.”

Mike didn’t reply. There was nothing to say.

Harry asked, “Why are the lights off?”

“Because there’s a window in here,” Mike said, speaking as though Harry were stupid. “If we turn on the light, anyone watching from the street will see you sitting at my kitchen table. I don’t much relish making myself a target for Death Eaters.”

Harry was embarrassed. He should’ve thought of that. Still, he snapped, “I hate to be the one to tell you, Fletcher, but as Agent Jezebel’s best friend, you’re already a target.”

“She’s worth it,” Mike retorted. “You aren’t.”

“Your devotion is heartwarming,” Harry mocked. Before tonight, he would’ve died a thousand deaths rather than talk about Ginny with Fletcher. But sleep deprivation and the fact that he couldn’t see Mike’s face made it easy. “I don’t know whether to ask why she’s worth it to you, or why I’m not.”

“She’s my best friend,” Mike said. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“I understand better than you think,” Harry said. “I understand that you’re in love with her; you’ve been in love with her for years. I know it. Dana knows it. Ron and Hermione know it. Ria and Gwen know it. Everyone knows it but Ginny.”

Mike choked on his mouthful of tea. “You don’t know anything, Potter,” he said with icy scorn. “She worshipped you for years! She gave you unconditional devotion, and you…you ignored it. By the time you finally realized what you had, it was too late. She was with me, and you couldn’t stand it. You thought that you could just declare your feelings and she’d follow you forever, but real life doesn’t work like that. You can’t have something just because you want it.”

“I never thought that –”

“Bullshit.” Mike was on a roll. The words spilled out of him in a rush, as though he’d been holding them back for a long, long time, and the dam had finally burst. Harry was astonished to hear the slight catch of tears in Mike’s voice as he said, “You’re telling me that when you tipped your hand in the Astronomy Tower, told her you’d fallen in love with her, that you didn’t expect her to melt and swoon and count herself the luckiest girl in the world? No other outcome even occurred to you, did it? And all those years, when I was with her, but never really with her…I didn’t ask for more than she was willing to give…you were there, always hanging around, staring at her. And she…it was like the two of you had this secret from the rest of the world. I never asked what it was, but I knew it was there. It was like a splinter in my head, and she didn’t trust me enough to tell me what was going on. I could’ve helped her, if she’d let me. I could’ve…but you never let me get close enough, and now she’s off with Draco Malfoy, and you’re having weird dreams, and…” He gave a sigh that seemed to come from the bottom of his soul. “Forget it. Never mind.”

Harry felt a dull flush creep across his cheeks, and was glad for the dark because it kept Mike from noticing. He’d never imagined that Mike had such a thorough understanding of his character, and his relationship with Ginny. He may be infuriating, but Harry also had to admit to a growing respect for Mike. “It’s not that she doesn’t trust you,” Harry finally said.

A bitter laugh was Mike’s only reply.

“I’m serious. She would’ve told you a hundred times over if she could, but she can’t.”

This was a revelation. “Who’s keeping her quiet?”

“I’m not,” Harry said, taking offense at Mike’s tone.

“Then who? Who has that kind of hold over her?” When Harry didn’t reply, Mike said, “You can’t just tell me something like that and then not elaborate. It’s not fair.”

“There are a lot of things in life that aren’t fair,” Harry said.

Mike made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat. “I’m risking my life for you right now, Potter. If the Malfoys learned that I was hiding you, it would be the Dementor’s Kiss for both of us. Don’t insult me any more than you already have. I think I’ve proved myself trustworthy enough to at least know –”

“Dumbledore.” Harry felt a creeping disloyalty to his friend and mentor, but Mike had a point. He did have a right to know. He was trustworthy and, at the moment, he really was risking everything to keep Harry safe until Ginny returned.

Mike swore softly. “I should’ve guessed it.”

“Why do you have such a problem with him?” Harry demanded out of faithfulness to the headmaster.

“He killed my father.”

“Death Eaters killed your father. Dumbledore is working to stop them. It seems to me, Fletcher, that you have what Muggle psychiatrists would call ‘displaced anger.’ ” Harry leaned back in his chair. He’d been dying to say that to Mike for years.

“What would you know about it?” Mike asked. “You don’t understand.”

“Will you stop saying that? I do understand,” Harry said, thinking of Ginny. He wanted to tell Fletcher to get over himself; that he wasn’t the only person to lose his family to Voldemort, but decided antagonism was the wrong way to approach the situation. He took a moment to carefully frame his reply. “My parents were killed because they were helping someone else. I don’t blame that person; she needs all the protection she can get. I realize that they’re dead because Voldemort killed them, not for any other reason. I understand your situation better than you think, Mike.”

Mike kept his face carefully blank. Potter said that the person his parents were helping needs protection, present tense. He played with his mug, sliding it back and forth between his hands, and wondered if there was anything important about the fact that James and Lily Potter had died the very same night Ginny was born. A pile of coincidences usually meant that something out of the ordinary was in motion.

“What’s going on?” Mike asked quietly. “I’m caught up in it now. I’m not going to leave her for anything, and I have a right to know what I’ve become involved with.”

Harry was silent.

Mike asked again, a little more forcefully, “Potter, what’s going on?”

“Well,” Harry began slowly, “I’m on the run from the Ministry of Magic, at least until Ginny comes home. Lucius Malfoy, I imagine, wants my soul sucked out, the sooner the better.”

“He might want that,” Mike said. “He’s wanted it since you were eleven. But would he be able to actually do it?”

Harry smirked and, remembering the day in Borgin and Burkes his second year, said, “Maybe not. The name Potter still commands a certain respect.”

Mike made a scornful noise into his tea, and Harry rolled his eyes. “Okay, maybe it doesn’t command respect with you, but it does with other people. He couldn’t survive the political fallout if he had me killed outright. Even a sham trial would be more than his administration could survive. The plain fact is that the people, or most of them anyway, love me. I know I haven’t done anything to deserve it, but there you are. I’m not above using it to my advantage.”

“No,” Mike said, “I don’t suppose you would be.”

Harry knew he’d walked right into that one. However, he didn’t want to get sucked into an argument; there were more important things at stake than his pride. He kept his mouth shut.

“I meant,” Mike said when he realized Harry wasn’t going to continue, “what’s going on with Ginny?”

“I can’t talk about that.”

“I have a right to know, Potter. We’ve been over this. Don’t you get tired of doing what Dumbledore says all the time? Haven’t you ever wondered what it would be like to make your own decisions?”

Harry sighed, and slid his mug across the table. “Thanks for the tea, and I’m sorry again about your eye.” He pushed his chair back and stood.

Mike jumped to his feet. “Dammit, Potter! You can’t just walk out of here. You have to tell me –”

“I have to think,” Harry interrupted. “We’ll talk again in the morning.”

“Come back here! Sit down!” Mike ordered.

His only response was the soft click of the spare bedroom door as Potter shut it. Mike slumped back into his chair. He felt wrung out, cheated, and damn but his face hurt. But…Potter hadn’t said no, only that he had to think. Maybe the truth was closer than Mike had supposed. He’d waited this long; he could wait until morning. With a sigh, he set the empty mugs in the sink and went back to his bedroom. He lay awake the rest of the night, and from the silence on the other side of the wall, he knew sleep eluded Potter too.

*          *          *          *          *

Twittering birds outside the window woke Draco from a sound sleep. His first thought was confused; it was February.   Why in the nine hells were songbirds fluttering outside?

A warm, pliant female body snuggled against him, nose nuzzled into his neck, and Draco tipped his head down. Her hair wasn’t the dark auburn of Delia’s, but lighter, shot through with threads of blonde. Ginny. He tried to ignore how very good she felt, how well their bodies fit together…that way led to madness, as he knew from experience.

She stirred and stretched, catlike, then opened her eyes. He saw hazy confusion, the last remnant of her dreams slipping away, before realization crystallized. “Malfoy,” she asked, her scratchy voice low and dangerous, “what are you doing here?”

He rolled up on one elbow and examined the bandage on her forehead with gentle fingers. “Do you remember anything from last night?”

“No.” Her body had lost all of its sleep-softness. She lay rigid on the bed, her pride the only thing keeping her from pushing him away.

He looked down at her – tousled hair, cheeks still pink from sleep – and thanked the goddess that she came through the night none the worse for wear. “You fell into the lake and almost drowned. You were shaking so badly, I had to warm you up with body heat. There was no other way.”

“There’s always another way,” Ginny said.

“No,” Draco corrected, a note of impatience creeping into his voice, “there wasn’t. I held you all night, waiting for you to stop shivering, praying that it would be soon. I didn’t fall asleep until I knew you were okay. I was being kind, Weasley.”

Ginny followed his fingers to her right temple and prodded the laceration on her head. It vanished with a flash of silver and she pulled the bandage off. “You’re not a kind person.”

“How good of you to notice the difference,” Draco said as he sat up. “I’m not a kind person. But, I can be kind, when it suits my purpose.”

“That’s not how it works –” Ginny began, and Draco interrupted, “Gratitude, Weasley. I’m waiting for it.”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t hold your breath. Kindness because of an ulterior motive isn’t kind, it’s manipulative and self-serving.” But then, as she turned her eyes to the rest of the room, her severe expression melted into one of wonder. “Oh my,” she breathed.

Draco’s worry returned full-force. “Oh my what?”

“Look!” she said. “Look at…where are we? Where did you find this place? It’s beautiful.”

“I don’t know,” Draco said. “This is just where we washed up. Ginny,” he paused, hoping that the blow to her head hadn’t permanently damaged anything, “what does this room look like to you?”

She tilted her head and gave him an odd look.

He said, “Humor me.”

Ginny glanced around. “Well, it has stone walls, and a window, and a bed –”

“Hardly a bed,” Draco said.

She looked puzzled. “What would you call it, then?”

“A cot, on a good day.”

“But, Draco, it’s…oh, I understand.”

“What?”

“You can’t see it,” she said, and her expression was of comprehension, with a little bit of pity thrown in for good measure.

Draco scowled. “I can’t see it because there’s nothing to see. There’s nothing beautiful about this place. It’s a disgusting room in a crumbling ruin.”

“It’s quite warm in here,” Ginny said, an abrupt change of subject. “Why is that, do you think?”

Draco had no idea. The fire had burned itself out hours ago. She was right, though, the room was extremely warm. The tree branches that swayed outside the window were heavy with leaves, and a jolt of fear ran down his spine. “Ginny,” he said slowly, “do you think we’ve fallen asleep for more than a night? Could we have slept for months without realizing it? Or even…” He didn’t want to say it, but forced the word out, “years?”

Ginny blinked in surprise, then looked amused. “No, I don’t think that. If we’d fallen asleep for months, the world wouldn’t be here for us to wake up to.”

“What do you think, then?”

“I think we should find something to eat.”

She swung her feet onto the floor grabbed her sword. Without bothering to don her jumper and robe, or even her shoes, Ginny walked out the door. Draco picked his shirt up from the floor and chased after her, barefoot. “Eat?”

“Aren’t you hungry?”

He was starving. “Well, yes. But what do you think we’ll find to eat here?”

She shrugged. “There’s always something.”

Just as they cleared the building into the bright, warm morning, Draco demanded, “Do you know where we are?”

She threw her head back and drank in a deep breath of air. “Look at that, Malfoy.”

“At what?”

Ginny flung her arms out, embracing the panoramic view. Sparkling rivers flowed down to the lake, and flowers carpeted the grass. Ancient, gracious trees dipped and swayed in a soft breeze, and the warm sun softly kissed the ground. A wall of opaque mist rose from the lake, surrounding the island – for Draco now realized that they were on an island – cutting it off from the rest of the world. Ginny tilted her head and a look of pure bliss crossed her face. She whispered, “There is sweet music here that softer falls/Than petals from blown roses on the grass,/Or night-dews on still waters between walls/Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass;/Music that gentlier on the spirit lies,/Than tir’d eyelids upon tir’d eyes;/Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies.”

Draco recognized the poem, but was confused. “What are you saying?”

Ginny smiled. “I slept well last night, for the first time in years. And that music! I think we’ve found the land of the Lotos Eaters, Malfoy.”

“What? But…but that’s a myth!”

Ginny had already started down the hill, the sword in her hand, but not at the ready. It was plain that she didn’t anticipate any threat here. Draco felt quite differently. “Stop!” he called.

She glanced over her shoulder without breaking stride. “What?”

“Why can’t I do magic anymore?”

She smiled. “I don’t think your wand works here. Your magic belongs to the mortal world.”

For the second time that morning, a cold fist of terror clenched in his stomach. “Are you saying we’re in the Otherworld?”

Ginny shook her head, the red strands twining with the gold and glistening in the sunlight. “You wouldn’t be able to come to the Otherworld. This feels like an in-between place. It’s not really here or there. It just is.”

“What place is that?” Draco demanded. “A straight answer, Ginny.”

“It’s a sanctuary,” she replied. Then, she threw back her head and drew a deep lungful of sweet air. “Just being here is like food. I’m not hungry anymore. I could just stand here and breathe and be and –”

Her bizarre behavior alarmed him. Draco took Ginny’s arm and jerked her close enough to examine her forehead for the second time that morning. No mark of the previous night’s injury remained. She knew what he was doing and grinned at him, then pulled free. The grass was wet with dew and, with a shout of girlish laughter, Ginny took a running start down the hill and slid toward another ruin, the soles of her feet carrying her over the slick ground. Draco ran after her, not sliding, terrified that she’d slip and impale herself on the sword. He needn’t have worried. She handled the weapon with a natural casualness, like it was an extension of her arm. She seemed to know just where she was going, and there was nothing for Draco to do but follow.

There were seven stone buildings in all, arranged halfway up an immense hill. At the top of the hill, vertical stones stood in a ring, reminding Draco of the rocks he’d seen at Stonehenge. Ginny paused at the door to one of the buildings, really no more than a hole in the side. The stones, furred with moss, had been worn smooth by the ages. Draco put his hand on her shoulder to hold her back and stepped in first. Hazy morning light filtered through cracks in the ancient walls, lighting dust motes and the glowing eyes of small animals. Draco noted two squirrels and a rabbit, but no evidence of human habitation. He didn’t see any footprints in the dirt that caked the floor, and the walls seemed disturbed only by age. The building had an air of quiet peace about it. Draco’s protective instincts were satisfied; there was no danger here.

As they walked down a long, crumbling corridor, Ginny examined the walls with interest. Draco didn’t see anything but stone, and wondered at her look of dazzled awe. At the end of the hallway, they reached a enormous room. Ginny stepped inside the towering double doors and froze. Draco walked right into her back. “What?” he asked.

“I’ve been here before,” she said in a hushed voice.

“When?”

They started down the length of the hall. “A long time ago, with the Mórrígan. She said it was my past.”

At the end, there was a throne on a raised dais and an immense table, cracked down the center, carved all over with lifelike dragons. “How did this happen?” Draco asked, testing the jagged edge with his finger.

“I don’t know,” she said, talking quietly even though there was no need. Ginny’s eyes were drawn to a small alcove, where a plain goblet sat on an altar of snowy white marble. The cup was carved of wood, lovingly polished to a high, satiny sheen.

Draco grabbed her arm just as she reached for it. “Hands off.”

“Why?”

“My father made me read a book, back when he first told me about all this Pendragon stuff. There was a drawing of this cup –”

“It’s just a cup,” Ginny said, irritated. “You can let go of me now.”

“This is not just a cup. Only those who are pure in mind and body can touch it, and you don’t qualify.”

Ginny turned to him with the look he knew meant that she was about to deliver a blistering lecture, so he continued in a harsh whisper, “Ginny, this is the Holy Grail of the Christian faith, brought to Camelot by the knights of the round table and sent to the island of Avalon for safe keeping –” Draco stopped speaking as a terrible expression crossed his face. “Avalon,” he repeated, so softly he seemed to mouth the word rather than say it. “Gods and goddesses, Ginny, how did we manage to -”

She tensed. Draco felt the muscles in her arm tighten under his grip as her eyes fixed on something over his shoulder. He whirled around, just catching the slight, shadowy movement on the other side of the room. Taking a deep breath to slow his pounding heart, he leaned down until his lips brushed her earlobe. “Gin,” he said, the tickle of his breath raising gooseflesh on her arms, “there’s someone else in here.”

Ginny’s eyes remained fixed on the far side of the room. “Of course there is. Did you think this place maintained itself?”

He caught another flicker of movement out the corner of his eye and, all in one smooth motion, drew his wand, closed his other hand around hers, and hauled her up against his side.

The moment his fingers twined with hers the hall exploded with color, a ruin no longer. Gold and silver glittered on every surface. The walls were hung with rich tapestries, the pictures so vibrant they seemed to be alive. Brilliant sunlight poured in, bathing them with an otherworldly glow. And, closing in on them from all sides were women, tall and elegant, garbed in loose, white robes. Blue crescent moons were tattooed on their foreheads. Draco didn’t even bother to ask; he knew right away who they were. The Priestesses of Avalon.

“It is beautiful,” he murmured.

A faint smile drifted across her face. “I told you so.” Still, she moved a little closer to him as the women drew near, and didn’t let go of his hand. He was glad that they made her nervous too.

The women stopped ten feet away, Ginny and Draco at the center of their circle. Then, heedless of their pristine white garments, they genuflected on the stone floor. Ginny’s hand tightened convulsively around his and Draco squeezed back, letting her know that he was here, and it would be all right.

“Put your wand away,” she murmured. He didn’t argue. In short order, the wand was back in his pocket.

A statuesque woman with waist-length hair emerged from the shadows. She was taller than the rest of the priestesses, and her straight, raven locks had thick streaks of silver-gray. Black, almond shaped eyes glittered from her white-skinned face. Her bearing was one of unfathomable power and wisdom. “Welcome home, Pendragon,” the woman said, her voice a low, mellow timbre. “We have been expecting you. Do you know who I am?”

“You’re the High Priestess,” Ginny answered, her words little more than an awed whisper. She moved to kneel, as the other Priestesses had done for her, and the tall woman caught her elbow.

“Never between us,” she said, and kissed Ginny on both cheeks. Her eyes shone with soft happiness. “We are sisters under the goddess, you and I. I am her Priestess, and you are her champion, and together, we serve both of her aspects, the mother and the warrior.”

Ginny didn’t quite know how to respond to that. She felt giddy and lightheaded, like she was floating outside her body, watching herself from afar. Was this really happening? She released Draco’s hand and stepped closer to the holy woman.

The High Priestess gently smoothed Ginny’s hair back from her face. “You are much younger than I had imagined. You look so tired.”

“I am tired,” Ginny admitted. It didn’t even occur to her to put on a brave front, or tell anything but the complete truth. “I’ve been tired for so long, and afraid. I hardly know what I’m doing anymore.”

“Give your fear to the goddess,” the Priestess suggested. “She will take it from you.”

“She hasn’t yet,” Ginny said with quiet anguish.

“Have you asked?”

Silence was Ginny’s reply.

“Come with me,” the High Priestess said, taking Ginny’s hand and leading her away with soundless footsteps. “We have much to discuss.” The woman’s eyes flicked once to Draco, then her attention once more focused wholly on Ginny as they walked out of the room, talking in low voices. He didn’t want to follow them, but he didn’t want to be left alone either. His indecision kept him in place, and then it was too late. Ginny and the High Priestess were gone.

The other Priestesses rose to their feet, and looked at Draco curiously. He supposed it had been centuries since they’d last seen anyone of the male persuasion. There was an awkward silence, and to fill it he said the first thing that came into his head. “Do you have anything to eat?”

*          *          *          *          *

“You have been fighting everyone for so long,” the High Priestess said. “Dumbledore and Voldemort, the goddesses, your protectors, yourself. When does it end, Pendragon?”

Ginny wrapped her arms around her drawn-up knees and leaned back against the ancient rock. The Priestess had led her to the top of the hill, and now they sat in the middle of the ring stones, the sacred place of prayer and sacrifice time out of mind. “I wish I knew.”

The woman shook her head. “You need to see, Pendragon, that there’s no need for such struggle on your part. You’ll only exhaust yourself before the battle truly begins.”

“There’s always need for struggle,” Ginny said. “Always.”

The woman tilted her head and regarded Ginny with gentle curiosity. “Why?”

“Well…” Ginny searched for the right words. “There’s always evil to be fought.”

The High Priestess shook her head. “Your theology needs some attention, Pendragon. In the Otherworld, there is no evil. There is creation and there is destruction, existing in a delicate balance, both equally vital to existence. There is no Macha without Badb, and no Mórrígan without both of them. You are the guardian of balance, not the champion of good over evil.”

This was news to Ginny. “How do you know?”

The woman smiled. “When you have been doing this as long as I have, Pendragon, you learn a thing or two.”

It didn’t bother Ginny that the Priestess called her by her title rather than her name; it somehow fit this in-between, holy place. “What should I do?”

“Whatever you want,” the Priestess said wryly. “There’s no one can make you do otherwise.”

“I’ve spent my whole life doing what others wanted.”

“I believe that if you examine your words closely, you will see they are untrue. If anyone has ever forced you into anything, it is only because you’ve let them. You had the eight of swords in your tarot spread for a reason.”

Ginny wondered how the Priestess knew about that. She supposed that a lot of information about her had reached this island over the years. “You found out about the tarot reading?”

“Of course,” the woman said. “I painted the cards you used.”

Ginny didn’t try to hide her surprise. “But they were ancient!”

“Yes.”

There was a moment of tense silence. “Who are you?” Ginny asked, her soft words barely audible above the spring breeze.

The Priestess stood, and rested her hand briefly on Ginny’s shoulder as she walked out of the stone circle. “A millennium ago, when I lived in the mortal realm, I was called Morgan of the Fairies. Arthur Pendragon was my half brother.”

Ginny was so astonished, she couldn’t speak. Had she really just spent the last half-hour conversing with Morgan le Fay? In the flesh? Ginny had thought herself beyond surprise, but apparently she’d been mistaken.

The woman continued, “Think, Pendragon, about where you have been, and where you need to be. The goddesses will hear you. They will help you if you let them.”

“Wait!” Ginny cried, sitting up on her knees. “Where are you going?”

There was no answer. The Priestess had vanished. Ginny was alone.

*          *          *          *          *

The priestesses led Draco back to the room he’d slept in the night before. Gold and silver threaded tapestries graced polished stone walls. The ornate bed sported a thick, inviting feather mattress and a plush red velvet duvet. It didn’t even look to be on the same planet as the hellhole where he’d shivered and worried the night away. A table – could it possibly be the same table he’d broken against the wall? – was set for one. It was a simple meal: some greens, bread, honey, water. His stomach grumbled and he was too hungry to even feel embarrassed.

He turned to the women who crowded the doorway, watching him with wide eyes. “There’s only one place set here. Do any of you want to eat with me?” Draco hated eating alone. It depressed him.

A priestess who looked a bit older than the rest stepped forward. She shook her head with a small smile. “The younger women are bound by a vow of silence until the goddess frees them. You would find them poor breakfast companions.”

Draco looked at the young women with new interest. “How do they know when the goddess frees them?”

“The Mórrígan never has trouble making her will known to us,” the priestess said. “Silence teaches discipline and obedience. It is an important part of our training.”

“Where’s Ginny?” Draco wondered, sitting down and breaking off a slice of bread.

“She has been taken to the ringstones. There she will fast and pray.”

“Pray?” he said, a sparkle of amusement in his eyes. “I don’t think she’s ever prayed in her life. Why would she, when she can talk to the goddess in person any time she wants to?”

The priestess shrugged. “As I said, the High Priestess has taken her to the ringstones. We go there to pray on calendar feasts. I am under the impression that the Pendragon is to remain there for a while. What else would she do but pray?”

A slight frown touched the corners of Draco eyes. “For how long? We’re sort of pressed for time.”

“She will be ready in the goddess’s time, not ours,” the priestess said with an esoteric smile. “This will be your room while you wait for her. If you need anything, one of us will be nearby.” She backed out of the room on soundless feet, and quietly shut the door behind her.

Draco topped his bread with a thick layer of honey, and munched on it as he wandered to the window. He could see the ringstones, standing in gray spikes against the rosepetal morning sky. So Ginny was up there. He’d have to pay her a visit when he’d finished eating. God only knew what the state of the outside world would be once they left the island. This might well be his last chance to talk to her, to convince her to join his faction. He couldn’t lie, but he could still manipulate.

*          *          *          *          *

She leaned her head back against the stone and looked up at the sky, basking in the wonderful sense of calm she felt in this place, on this hill. Everything seemed clearer here, more real. Colors and sounds were pure and sharp. The new morning sun rose above the mists with a pulsing, fiery beauty that made Ginny wish she could go there, to the sun, and run across the flaming surface…let it burn away her fear and doubt and leave only the best parts of who she was…the Pendragon the world deserved instead of the one they had in her.

“Knut for your thoughts.”

Ginny lowered her head and saw Draco topping the hill. He was out of breath from the steep climb and dropped to the ground beside her. Their backs leaned against the same stone. “Hello,” he said.

“Hello,” Ginny replied. Her next words came out in a rush. “I don’t think you’re supposed to be up here. That is, I think I’m meant to be alone just now.”

Draco arched an eyebrow. “Oh? Are you doing secret things? It looked like you were watching the sunrise.”

“That was really all, actually,” she said, a faint blush tingeing her cheeks.

“Well then,” he said, as though that settled it. “And they didn’t say I couldn’t come up here. I’m sure someone would’ve mentioned it if it were important.”

Ginny felt a vague sense of unease. She wanted him to go away, but she didn’t want to be alone either. “What do you want?”

“I want to talk to someone who will talk back,” Draco said. “The priestesses have all taken vows of silence. Or the ones I met have, anyway. And we have unfinished business between us.”

“What business is that?”

“Our deal,” Draco replied. “I took you to the sword and you didn’t try to escape. It’s been discharged. Now, before we go back out there and you have the chance to run away, it’s time for a new deal.”

“I don’t want anything from you.”

”No?”

She opened her mouth to reply and he held up his hand to quiet her. “Hear me out. I don’t even need you to tell me what you want. I know, and you’ll have it if you join me.”

“I’m not interested in power. That’s what you’re going to offer me, isn’t it? Well, I don’t want it. I don’t want any of it.”

He didn’t smirk, or frown, or taunt. He looked at her as though he could see through her eyes to her most secret wishes. A knowing whisper of a smile curved his thin lips. “How do know, Ginny? How do you know what you want ‘till you get what you want and you see if you like it?”

“I’m disappointed, Malfoy. Clichés are more Dumbledore’s style than yours.”

“Power is a good servant, but a bad master,” Draco observed. His voice was remote, casual, as though he was discussing nothing more serious than the sunrise. He didn’t want to frighten her off. “If you let it control you then, yes, you’ll do evil things with it, because of it. But it can be used for good. Think of everything you could do. You’d restore the balance. You’d overthrow Voldemort. You’d be a major player in the reconstruction of the wizarding world, and you’d be able to shape things however you think would be best. You’d make a difference, a real difference. Who could wish for more than that?”

Ginny rested her chin on her drawn-up knees, making her look small and vulnerable, like a sad little girl. “When you know you can’t have what you want, what’s the point of wishing?”

Draco turned his head to look at her. Although she kept her eyes focused on the sky, Ginny was acutely aware of his breath fanning her cheek. The heat from his body filled the narrow space between them, warming her side. “So young,” he said, a teasing smile in his voice, “and so jaded.”

“I don’t feel young.”

“Well, you are. You’re extremely young. Practically an infant, compared to someone like Dumbledore. You have to stop this, Ginny…this feeling sorry for yourself. It’s getting old. You’re never going to be any good to anyone, least of all yourself, if you keep it up.”

Draco used his finger beneath her chin to lift and turn her face toward his. In a maneuver calculated to throw her off balance, he brushed lips against the corner of her mouth and murmured, feeling her smooth, cool skin beneath his mouth, “Think of everything you could do. Think of what you could be to wizardkind, if you said yes.”

Then, in one fluid motion, he stood and left. It nearly killed him not to look back. If he had, he would’ve seen her sitting there, head turned to the side, just the way he’d left her. Her eyes stared ahead, blank and unseeing, as she struggled to wrap her mind around his offer. After a long time, Ginny flopped back on the grass, exhausted. She didn’t know what to think or do. There was so much to absorb, so many plans to make and options to weigh, but in the meantime, the grass was sweet and the flowers’ intoxicating perfume wafted through the air. The sun was warm and Ginny, for the second time since she’d reached the island, drifted into an undisturbed sleep.

*          *          *          *          *

Harry was awake when the sun came up. Ordinarily, he loved sunrises. They meant new life, second chances, and fresh starts.

This morning, he dreaded the sunrise in a way he’d never thought possible. Each minute that ticked by brought him closer to his inevitable confrontation with Fletcher. He didn’t want to tell Ginny’s secret. Not because he disliked Mike (although he did) but because it was something Mike deserved to hear from Ginny. For all his waiting and patience, he should have at least that much.

But Ginny wasn’t there. Mike was putting his life on the line for someone he neither liked nor trusted, and he was owed an explanation. It was the decent thing to do. Ginny’s best friend should know before the general public. He deserved to be told what was going on. He’d deserved to know it a long time ago, and if the problems with the balance and Voldemort’s dark sacrifices continued as they were, odds were good that Mike would learn soon enough anyway. Harry was probably only hastening the revelation by a few weeks.

The smell of sizzling bacon reached his nose. Mike was up.

Harry had never been one to shirk his duty, no matter how unpleasant. He wasn’t about to start today.

*          *          *          *          *

Dana walked into Mike’s building, trailing her hand along the wall for balance. She was still dizzy, her pupils dilated. When she’d checked out of the hospital, she’d learned that, when Harry brought her in, he’d told the staff that she was potentially dangerous and under suspicion for conspiring with a Death Eater. The mediwizards had pumped her full of their strongest sedatives out of fear for their safety. The potions still hadn’t completely left her system. Dana didn’t blame the doctors; they were civilians, after all. But she burned with the cold fire of Slytherin fury whenever she thought of Harry. She’d make him sorry for doing this to her, once she’d fully recovered.

The doors slid closed and Dana leaned wearily against the back. She felt the slow movement of the old lift under her feet as her head lolled against the wall. Her eyelids were heavy and more than anything she wanted to sleep. She shook her head in a vain attempt to clear it and her eyes focused enough to see that she was passing the third floor. By the time the lift reached the fourth she was drifting again. The smoky haze of sleep filled her eyes and thoughts. The inside of the lift swam in and out of focus while she watched the numbers tick by. The gray walls blurred into a steel-colored fog. Dana realized it wasn’t the haze of sleep that surrounded her, but rather a grayish mist that clung to her skin, cold and wet.

Dana wrapped her arms around her chest and took a tentative step forward. “Hello?” she called. There was no answer.

She heard a soft scraping noise, and followed it until she reached a low table, topped with a chessboard. Dana knelt down and looked at the pieces, then gasped. They were alive! She watched them move, as by an unseen hand, their feet scraping across the black and white squares. She watched a white bishop, a statuesque, dark-haired woman, move to the square adjoining a white knight, a young woman with red hair. Dana bent down, her nose barely an inch from the piece, and frowned when she saw that the knight was Ginny. It was a perfect representation, right down to the miniscule silver tattoo on her hip. She also recognized Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, as the two white castles.

A black pawn slid to the space beside the black queen, and Dana made a strangled sound. The queen was the twisted goddess of her vision, and the pawn…she was the pawn! There was another black pawn a few spaces away that looked just like Delia. Dana reached out to touch the living miniature of herself, and out of nowhere, a large, white hand closed around her wrist.

Pain like she’d never known lanced through her, starting at her arm and cutting across her body. It was like being torn apart. She was drowning, freezing, burning, dying. The darkness swallowed Dana’s agonized screams. She fell to her knees, and the hand released her. “Don’t touch,” a voice whispered in her ear, fluttering her hair, making her spine creep with cold terror.

“Where are we? What is this?” Dana asked, cradling her hand. “Who are you?”

The goddess crossed to the other side of the table. “This is a chessboard. The grand game, waged between two masters, the rival queens.” She fingered the white queen, “My sister, the Mórrígan,” the white knight that wasn’t Ginny, “aided by my other sister, Macha. And I, mortal, am the Great Destroyer, the goddess Badb.” She trailed her hand lightly over the black queen. “The better question to ask is, who are you?”

“I don’t understand,” Dana said, her words hoarse. “Please –”

“You,” Badb interrupted, “are my pawn.”

“Wait,” Dana said, struggling to her feet. “I don’t understand. I’m no one’s pawn.”

“Wrong,” Badb said, trailing her finger over Dana’s cheek. Her face felt like it was melting off. She let out a strangled shriek, and the goddess laughed. “You are my pawn. I made you. I gave you and your sister power, and now it’s time to show your gratitude. Nothing comes without a price.”

“What price?” Dana wanted to get away, but how?

“Service to me.”

“No,” Dana declared. “Take the power back. We don’t want it, if that’s what it costs.”

Badb gave a cruel laugh. “It doesn’t work that way, Dana. I have given you the power, and now you will use it to help me.”

“I won’t. We won’t.”

The goddess walked behind the table and leaned over Dana’s shoulder, trapping her against the board. “You won’t be able to help yourself. Look, mortal. When pawns get to the eighth square, they become whatever piece the master chooses. You and your sister will become knights. My knights. You’ve already reached the sixth square. You’re so close, and soon, Dana…soon…”

“No,” Dana whispered.

“Pawns can only move forward. You and your twin will go to the eighth square, Dana, because there’s nowhere else you can go.”

A chime sounded from far away. Dana shook her head in defiance. She would not be the black knight. She opened her eyes and looked up, determined to fight the dark queen.

The goddess was gone. In her place were the doors sliding open onto Mike’s hallway. Fear and adrenaline chased the weariness from her body. Dana stumbled out of the lift.

*          *          *          *          *

Harry played with his fork. He had no appetite. Mike wasn’t eating either. He just sat, arms folded across his chest, and waited for Harry to start talking.

Harry had no idea how to begin. “Do you believe in fate, Fletcher?”

“No,” Mike said without even pausing to think.

Harry was surprised. “You don’t think people are put on earth for a specific reason, to accomplish a certain thing?”

“No.”

“Why not?” The idea of someone not believing in destiny was a foreign idea to Harry.

“Because I make my life what it is. Predestination is for people who don’t want to take responsibility for being unhappy.”

“Oh.”

Harry went back to toying with his food.

“Is that all you wanted to say, Potter?” Mike was exasperated. “Come on.”

“I don’t know how to explain.”

“I’m a reasonably intelligent person,” Mike said. “If you just start talking, I’m sure I’ll follow you without too much trouble.”

Harry took a deep breath. “It started with my parents.”

“Your parents?”

“I’m not going to get through this if you keep interrupting!” Harry said. “Do you want to talk, or do you want to listen?”

Mike was quiet.

“This is…complicated. Have you ever heard of the Pendragon prophecy?”

There was silence. After almost a full minute, Mike said, “Can I talk now?”

“Yes,” Harry snapped, exasperated. “When I ask you a direct question, you can talk.”

“Then, yes, I have.”

“Okay.” At least he wouldn’t have to go over all that with Fletcher. “Before I was born, Professor Trelawney predicted that I was destined to be a protector of the Pendragon. It’s why Voldemort went to my parents’ house that night; he wanted to get me out of the way, so that she could be under his control.”

Mike’s eyes widened as his quicksilver mind made the connection. “Oh my bloody god and fuck. It’s Ginny.”

Harry blinked. He was used to Hermione’s mind jumping from point A to point E without having to stop at B, C, and D, but he’d never realized that Mike was just as fast to catch on. “Yes.”

Mike’s forehead dropped forward onto the table. “And Dumbledore wouldn’t let her tell anyone. It’s why she wouldn’t quit the Division, isn’t it, even though she hated it. And why she was so secretive all the time…and why she could never tell me why she was so unhappy…”

Harry didn’t know what to say.

“I’m so stupid!” Mike groaned. “I should’ve figured it was something like this.”

“You’re not stupid,” Harry said automatically. “But you don’t believe in fate. This kind of thing never would’ve occurred to you.”

“I might not believe in fate,” Mike said, lifting his eyes to look at Harry from beneath lowered brows, “but I believe in the Mórrígan.” His mouth dropped open. “Oh,” he whispered, “if Ginny is really this thing, then she’s met the goddess. I mean, she’s spoken to her, face-to-face.” His expression hovered somewhere between horror and awe.

“All the time,” Harry said.

“There are two protectors,” Mike murmured, his mind still sifting through the puzzle pieces he’d collected through the years, finally fitting them together. “You’re the one, and the other…”

“Malfoy,” they both said at once.

“I could lose her over this,” Mike said. His face creased in an expression very like fear. Harry had never seen Mike afraid, though, and wasn’t sure what to make of it. “Just like my father.”

“You’re not going to lose her,” Harry said. “Listen to me, Fletcher. You’re not. I’m not about to keep her from her best friend.”

“I didn’t think you would,” Mike snapped. “If you were that type of person, she wouldn’t have fallen in love with you.”

“Then what –”

“Not everything is about you, Potter. She could die. What if something happens to her? What if –”

“No,” Harry interrupted. He made his voice as convincing as possible. “She’s not going to die. I’m not going to let that happen. Do you understand, Mike? I give you my word that I won’t let her die.”

A crow shrieked through the room, nearly taking Mike’s head off on its way to the table. With a surprised yell, Mike jumped to his feet so quickly that his chair crashed back onto the linoleum floor.

Harry didn’t move. He recognized the crow right away, although he’d only seen it twice before in his life. “She’s not here to deliver mail.”

The blood drained from Mike’s face. “The window isn’t open.” Although he’d never seen this particular bird before, he also knew who it must be. “Why is there a war goddess in my kitchen?”

He is extraordinarily perceptive, Mórrígan said.

Harry gasped. Her voice, cold and wild, felt like it was splitting his mind apart. “What are you doing here?”

I’ve come to tell you, at these words, Harry felt an invisible hand pulling his head forward and down, until he looked the bird in the eye, my sister’s pawns will not stay pawns for long.

“Her…pawns?” Harry asked. He didn’t want to admit to the goddess that he had no idea what she was talking about.

“Is she talking to you?” Mike croaked.

Harry ignored him.

The ones with Otherworldly power. The aberrations she created to thwart the balance –

“Dana and Delia are the only other people with silver magic,” Harry said.

Yes.

He frowned. “And…I’m sorry. I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me.”

They are a danger to you and to the other protector, but most of all, they are a danger to Virginia. They are not safe, no matter how harmless or helpless they may seem. You must stop them.

A key turned in the front door lock, and Harry jerked his head towards the entranceway. When he looked back, the bird was gone. Mike stood, frozen in place, his breathing shallow. Harry hoped he wasn’t going into shock.

The door to the flat creaked open. Harry’s mind raced. There was only one other person with a key. Dana. In the blink of an eye, his wand was in his hand and he was creeping to the kitchen door.

*          *          *          *          *

Ginny woke the next morning. She didn’t open her eyes right away, and the sunlight made red fireworks against the inside of her lids. Had she really slept an entire day? Well, she wouldn’t have if she hadn’t needed it. Her crushing exhaustion was gone. She felt energized, and very, very hungry.

There wasn’t any food. There was a pond in the corner of the clearing, but Ginny didn’t touch it. Its surface was unnaturally smooth, undisturbed even in the spring breeze. It was obvious to anyone with eyes that the water was holy.

On the other side of the clearing was a stone basin. When Ginny peered in, she saw her face reflected, gray from the stone beneath the clear water, a shallow mirror made of collected dew. She drank as much as she could scoop with her cupped hands. The water tasted like the outdoors, cool and green and pure. It was delicious, but hardly satisfying. Her hunger was a dull, aching twist in her stomach. It sharpened her mind and senses to an astonishing degree.

“Good morning,” Draco said from behind her.

Ginny turned slowly. “You’re back, are you?”

“It’s not as though I have anything better to do,” he said. “They don’t talk down there, you know.”

“And you’re such a social creature.”

“Maybe not, but I do enjoy occasional conversation.” He leaned against one of the stones. “Have you thought about our discussion yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

Ginny folded her arms across her chest. “And you’re not the only one who can recite clichés. You may know what you need, Draco, but to get what you want you should see that you keep what you have.”

He frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“You need me to overthrow Voldemort. But you also need your faction, or who will prop you up after the war is done? And what do you suppose they’re doing right now without you there to lead them? How do you propose to keep them happy when, in reality, your goals are never going to come true?”

He stiffened. “Now listen to me –”

“No,” she interrupted. “You said your piece yesterday. Now it’s my turn. None of this matters. You or Voldemort…it’s so painfully insignificant in the greater scheme of things. What matters is righting the balance and getting Badb out of this world. Compared to what we have in store from her, Voldemort is nothing. It doesn’t matter who will take his place, because there won’t be a place to take, Draco. Everything will change. And what will they do when they realize that you can’t deliver on the promises you’ve made?”

His steely eyes narrowed. “You think I haven’t planned for that? Give me a little credit at least, Ginny. I’ve never promised any of them anything but power. I’ve promoted every one of them more times than I care to think. I’ve held up my end of the contract, whether the coup succeeds or not.”

“But –”

“I’m not here to talk about them,” he interrupted. “I’m here to talk about you. Tell me what you want and it’s yours.”

“Harry,” Ginny said. “Pure and simple. I want Harry. I want to be with him, and I want to be happy with him. If I joined your faction I’d never have that, and he’s more important to me than anything else in the world. I don’t want fame, wealth, or power. I just want Harry, and you can’t give him to me because he’s not yours to give.”

For the first time since this whole mess had started, Draco looked flustered. “But…but…you’re the bloody Pendragon! You don’t need to be with him!”

“No,” Ginny agreed. “I don’t need to be with him. If I did, then what’s between us would be meaningless because I wouldn’t have a choice in the matter. But I want to be with him. I choose him, and I love him. I love him more than I ever thought it was possible to love another person, and that might not mean anything to you, but it means a hell of a lot to me.”

“But –”

“You’re going to debate this?” she asked incredulously.

“You want Harry, do you?” he asked, his lips twisting in a scornful sneer. His eyes were hard as he stalked across the clearing. “What do you know about Harry? What can you possibly know about what you’re getting yourself into with him?”

“Shut up.”

“Not yet.”

“Malfoy –”

“You love Harry,” he said with frozen contempt. “You had a pathetic crush when you were a child, Ginny. You made yourself a laughingstock over him. You threw away any right you had to be taken seriously. Because of him, you had enough angst to bring back a dozen Tom Riddles.”

Ginny turned very white; her freckles stood out against her cheeks in dark splotches. “Don’t you dare –”

“It’s his fault, Ginny. It’s all his fault. He ignored you, threw your devotion in your face a hundred times, in a hundred small ways. He didn’t care about you. He has a piece of Tom Riddle inside of him, and it’s his fault you were almost killed your first year. It’s his fault the balance is disturbed, and the world might end! He has some kind of sick hold on you, but it’s not too late to break free. Join me. Choose me.”

Ginny’s eyes were glassy, her breathing shallow. He’d touched a nerve. “I’m not joining your faction, Malfoy,” she said, her voice raw. “Not now, not ever. I have more important things to do than play these stupid mortal power games.”

Draco opened his mouth to speak again, but Ginny shook her head to silence him. “No. You need to go.”

“Why?”

Her eyes drifted over to the still, silver water of the pool. The breeze wound through her hair, separating the red strands from the gold, lifting them, twining them around each other. She looked like one of the fey, belonging more to this in-between place than she did to the world of humans. She was a creature of the Otherworld, trapped in a haunted mortal body. Her eyes, eyes that had seen things no one else had dreamed of, looked through him rather than at him. “I want to be alone. The goddess and I have to talk. Come back tomorrow.”

Her dismissal was so abrupt, her tone so authoritative, Draco obeyed without question. He felt hollow, exhausted inside. By her unconditional refusal, she’d just shut down any chance he’d had to overthrow the Dark Lord. She’d looked him in the eye and calmly laid waste to his life’s work. He didn’t know what to do. There was a sense of unreality to the whole thing; a small voice inside whispered Maybe she didn’t mean it. Maybe she’ll change her mind but, logically, he knew he didn’t stand a chance. He had to think.

*          *          *          *          *

“What are you doing?” Mike whispered.

“Taking preventive measures,” Harry replied, his face set into grim, determined lines.

He stepped into the hallway and faced the pale, trembling girl who stood before him. “Harry,” Dana said, her voice shaking with fear, “help me.”

This hadn’t been what he was expecting to hear. “Help you?”

“The goddess Badb –”

The rest of her words were swallowed by Mórrígan’s voice in his mind. It has already begun.

“Wait,” Harry said aloud. “Wait. She’s asking for help! She didn’t come here to…I mean, I can’t just…”

Dana’s silver eyes seemed to swallow her whole face as she begged softly, “Please, help me. I don’t know what to do. I’m caught up in something I don’t understand, and I’m so afraid. I can’t…”

“Just a second,” Harry said. “Why do you need my help?”

“In the lift…I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s bigger than I am and I’m scared. I don’t know who else to ask. My sister and I –”

Harry! the goddess shouted. And then, a scene quickly flashed behind his eyes.

Dana, standing among trees, ankle-deep in a carpet of snow. Her head was bowed, her eyes closed. Before her stood a giant of a woman, a goddess, dressed in scarlet. Hate and destruction and hellfire burned in her red eyes. She rested her hand on Dana’s shoulder and Harry heard one, terrible word. “Mine.”

“Is it real?” Harry asked, horrified.

It will be, if you don’t act now.

He looked at Dana’s pale, terrified face, and braced himself.

“Is what real?” Dana asked. “Harry?” She trailed off as he slowly raised his wand. “Harry, what are you doing?”

“Potter?” Mike asked from the kitchen doorway. “What’s going on?”

He edged into the hall and Harry snapped, “Go back in the kitchen.”

Mike ignored him and kept coming closer, slowly working his way between Harry and Dana. Harry shouted, “Fletcher, she’s not safe! Get in the kitchen, now!” At his tone, Mike froze, and Harry seized his opportunity.

“Petrificus –”

Before he could get the second word out Dana, her reaction time honed by years of Auror training, threw herself to the ground. A fiery sphere of silver power shot from her hands and, by instinct, Harry hurled himself at Mike, knocking them both to the ground and covering Mike’s body with his own. He swung his wand up just as Dana let loose with another spell. He couldn’t get out of the way fast enough, and the Cruciatus curse hit him square in the chest with an Otherworldly explosion of pain. He screamed. It was torment like nothing ever suffered on the mortal plane. Mike wriggled from beneath him and, rising to his knees, yelled, “Make it stop!”

Dana didn’t move. She looked up at them from across the floor, hate and fear burning in her eyes.

“Dana!” Mike shouted over Harry’s shrieks. “You’re going to kill him!”

“He was going to kill me,” Dana said flatly.

Mike wrenched his wand out of his back pocked and yelled, “Finite Incantatum.”

Harry went abruptly silent, the twitching aftershocks of his body the only proof that he was still alive.

Mike stumbled to his feet, and Dana did too. There was a smoking hole in the wall where her first curse had hit, and he could see straight through to the living room beyond. Dana only got two steps before a jet of yellow light tore across the room from where Harry lay on the floor. She ducked out of the way with a yell of surprise and fired back.

The two Aurors weren’t even shouting incantations; the spells were fueled solely by their driving need to incapacitate each other. Mike knew he didn’t stand a chance, so he did the only sensible thing; he dropped flat on the floor and covered his head.

Suddenly, all was silent. A thin, smoky haze filled the entryway and scorched air stung Mike’s nostrils as he cautiously got to his feet. Harry and Dana lay on opposite sides of the room. Dana was on her stomach, her long hair an auburn puddle around her head. Harry was on his back, his arm flung across the floor, wand still clenched in his fist. Mike saw by the subtle rise and fall of Harry’s chest that he was alive. He stumbled over to Dana and reached for the pulse in her neck. He sank to his knees in relief when he felt it beating beneath his fingers, steady and sure. She would be all right.

He looked across the floor to Harry and, in that split-second, knew there was only one thing he could do. Mike picked up his wand and whispered, “Ennervate.”

Dana stirred. Her eyes cracked open and she looked up at Mike through her lashes. “Did I kill him?”

“No. He’s stunned. Dana, what’s happening?”

“You can’t help me.” Dana pulled herself to her feet. “You’re not powerful enough.”

Based on what he’d seen and heard the past few minutes, Mike wholeheartedly agreed. Dana backed towards the open door but, before she could leave, Mike caught her wrist. “Why are you doing this?”

“I don’t trust myself,” she said, “and I don’t trust Potter. I can’t stay here.”

Mike took a deep breath and hoped he was making the right choice. “All field agents in the Auror Division have been declared outlaws. Be careful; it means the Dementor’s Kiss if you’re caught.”

She nodded, mute.

“And Dana,” Mike added quietly, “don’t come back here again.”

She felt hurt, and more alone than ever. “You’d turn me in, Mike?” Dana didn’t wait for an answer. She was gone before he could say another word. There was only one place she could go, only one person strong enough to help her. There was no other choice. She’d go to Hogwarts and seek asylum with Dumbledore.

Mike sat on the floor and watched the grandfather clock, miraculously unscathed after the small battle that had been waged in his front hall. After she’d been gone half an hour, he ennervated Harry.

He sat up so quickly, Mike scrambled back.

“Where is she?” Harry demanded.

“Gone,” Mike answered. “You knocked each other out. I woke her up first.”

“You let her go?” His face was an unpleasant shade of purple; he was furious.

Mike pressed his lips into a thin line. “She was asking for help and you attacked her! What was I supposed to do?”

“How dare you?” Harry shouted. “How dare you interfere after what she did?”

“I care about her!” Mike yelled back. “I know that she broke the law to protect a Death Eater, but I wasn’t about to let you hurt her when she came here to ask you for help. I just couldn’t.”

“You care about that Slytherin traitor? I shouldn’t be surprised. She as red hair and Otherworldly power, so I suppose she’s the best you can do at a Ginny substitute.”

Mike looked stricken. His shoulders sagged and his blue eyes met Harry’s, reflecting confusion and mute misery. He swallowed hard. “Would you like to twist the knife when you wrench it out of my chest?”

“What do you want me to say?” Harry asked. “The goddess stood right in front of me and gave me an order, and you stopped me from carrying it out. This isn’t a game, Fletcher. Life and death is in the balance, and one wrong move will throw it all to hell.”

Mike shook his head. He stood and, on soundless feet, left the room. Harry heard the soft click of the bedroom door as Mike shut it behind him.

*          *          *          *          *

Ginny wasn’t thinking. She held her mind separate from her body and focused on her breathing, on the wind gently whispering across the grass, on the soft, reassuring thump of her own heartbeat. She spent the rest of the day and that entire night sunk in this meditative state, and when the sun rose over the tops of the ringstones for the third time, she knew she was ready.

She walked on unsteady legs to the side of the sacred pool and leaned over it. The water reflected her face like a fine mirror. “Mórrígan,” she said softly. “Mórrígan, please, I need you.”

Ginny’s reflection rippled in the still water, and slowly melted into the vague shadow of the Mórrígan, an echo from the pond in the Otherworld. “I don’t believe you’ve ever asked for my help before, Virginia,” the goddess said. “Tell me what troubles you.”

“I spoke with your High Priestess, and she said some things that…well, I’m not sure whether they’re true or not.”

“She wouldn’t lie,” Mórrígan declared.

“I’m so used to fighting. I’m afraid that I don’t know how to do anything else.”

“Then fight,” Mórrígan said simply. “But choose your battles carefully.”

“I feel so helpless sometimes,” Ginny said.

The goddess shook her head. “Why do you pity yourself so, Virginia? You are not helpless. You are the Great Dragon, champion of the Phantom Queen of the Otherworld. You were selected for this destiny. It was not a mistake. It was not a fluke. It couldn’t have been anyone but you. There is no one else who could discharge it as you will. I do not question the Universe’s decisions in this matter; I suggest you do the same. It knows what it’s doing, and it chose you to safeguard the balance. You are the one. Why wish for another life, when you aren’t suited to any but this one?”

“I don’t,” she shot back. A little of the color started to come back into her cheeks, and a spark of life reached her brown eyes. “Maybe I used to pity myself, and maybe I used to complain, and maybe I –”

Mórrígan smiled wryly. “My island has burned that out of you, has it?”

“Am I really all those things?” she asked in a soft voice. “The Great Dragon? Champion of the Phantom Queen?”

“That’s not my decision to make,” the goddess said, her red eyes suddenly grave. “Are you those things, Virginia?”

This was a moment that would define an entire lifetime. She could say whatever she wanted. She could deny it, or she could embrace who she was. The entire Otherworld held its breath and waited for her answer, and all of existence narrowed in on the hilltop of the island between the worlds.

“Yes,” Ginny finally said. “Yes, I am.” And as she said the words she knew with a soul-deep surety that they were true.

“Then you are,” Mórrígan said. “Carry that knowledge with you, and all will be well. We’ll talk again soon.”

The pond rippled, and the goddess was gone.

“You told me to come back in the morning,” Draco said from behind her.

She straightened and turned to look at him. He felt himself rooted to the spot. As a reluctant Pendragon, Ginny had been imposing. This morning, she was downright awe-inspiring. Her power made the air around her shimmer like heat waves, and her gaze was direct, with no hint of nerves or awkwardness.

Draco asked quietly, “Why are we here?”

She took a step toward him, and the spell was broken. She was regular Ginny once again. “I don’t know. Macha brought us here. We’ll find out why in her time, not ours.”

“Were you really praying?”

Her smile was tired. “Would you believe me if I said yes? This is a sacred place, Malfoy.”

He didn’t have to stretch to understand her meaning. “You don’t think I belong here.”

She sighed. “No, I don’t. I think that you’re profaning it by your presence, but that’s not my decision to make.”

“Has it ever occurred to you,” Draco said, “that I’m making the best of circumstances beyond my control? I didn’t ask to be born a Malfoy, or to be your protector, but I am both of those things. I didn’t ask to have Voldemort offer me a choice between death and slavery. Have you ever thought that I’m doing my best to play the hand I’ve been dealt?”

“No,” Ginny replied without hesitation. Like him, she didn’t raise her voice, but spoke with calm, simple frankness. “You’ve committed crimes, Draco. You’ve raped, tortured, and murdered, all without a twinge of conscience. You may have been disgusted by blood or gore, but not by the action itself. You didn’t do these things because you were born into them. You kill because you choose to, and no other reason. You didn’t become second in command because you were playing the hand you’ve been dealt. You did it because you’re addicted to power, and the control it gives you over other people.”

He didn’t argue. Instead, he asked, “Have your prayers come true?”

“They may have. I won’t know for a while.”

They faced each other in silence. Ginny felt like a spring that had been wound too tight. She wanted to be doing something. She wanted to get off this island and back to the real world. Finally, Draco sighed. “I spent a long time thinking yesterday.”

“About what?”

“You’ve ruined everything I’ve spent my life working for. You just laid it to waste, so casually. I should hate you. I spent all last night trying to hate you. I know it’s only because of the link and otherwise I’d despise you just as much as I ever did, but I can’t anymore. I don’t think there’s ever been anyone who’s ever understood me enough to say what you just said, and I should loathe you for seeing through me, but….”

“I know.”

“You do?”

She nodded. “I feel the same way.”

“You’re saying you don’t hate me?” he asked in surprise.

“It’s like you said. I can’t help it. You’re a part of me. I know I should, but I can’t.”

Draco was pleased, but didn’t want to examine that feeling too closely. Instead, he asked, “When can we go home?”

“Soon,” Ginny replied. “Tonight. I just have to figure out…”

“I know you don’t want to leave,” he interrupted. “Part of you belongs to this place. But, Ginny, we have to go. Who knows what’s happening outside the mists? You can’t take yourself out of the world. The goddess sent you here because you needed clarity, and you’ve found it. There’s no other reason to stay.”

“Yes there is.”

Draco frowned. “What?”

Ginny told him the whole story – Mórrígan’s need to strengthen their link, Macha’s alternate plan – and finished with, “We’re here to do something specific. If we leave without this connection, then Mórrígan will just take over again.”

“And that would be bad?” Draco asked.

“It was bad,” Ginny said. “You know it was; you felt it too. It was like being in the middle of a hurricane and a nightmare, all at once.”

“You’re changed,” he said. This morning, she was so unlike the Ginny he’d seen back at the Manor. She was calm, collected, straightforward…confident. “You’re different. What has this place done to you?”

Ginny shrugged, a careless, innately graceful gesture. “It’s the air up here. It makes us honest with ourselves.”

“Did the High Priestess say that?”

“She didn’t have to. I’m ready to go back down,” she said, abruptly turning away.

“Where are you going?” Draco asked.

“I’ve been up here long enough.” She started down the hill, and he followed.

The High Priestess awaited the pair at the bottom of the hill. She’d been expecting them. “Come,” she said, holding her hand to Ginny. “You need a scabbard and nourishment before you leave us again.”

*          *          *          *          *

Badb leaned over the chessboard and considered her next move. Her fingers danced across the pieces until she settled on a thick, wide-set black pawn with a young man’s face. She moved it one space ahead and set it beside the black bishop.

*          *          *          *          *

Goyle lumbered into the dungeon of Malfoy Manor. He was confused. He hadn’t been back in the country for long, but he’d seen enough to realize that the Dark Lord hadn’t yet used the Pendragon to seize control.

He said as much to Lucius Malfoy. The older man’s astonishment was plain, even to one as dim as Goyle. “Come with me,” Malfoy had said, and whisked him into the inner sanctum.

Now, Goyle knelt at the feet of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and answered the question put to him. “But Agent Jezebel was Ginny Weasley. I told Draco that she was the Pendragon the same night she landed in the billiards room. I don’t understand; where is she?”

Voldemort sucked in a breath, and raised his red, slit-like eyes to Lucius. “So, your son has betrayed me after all. He has fled with the Pendragon, under my very nose. No doubt they are far away by now.”

The elder Malfoy was everything cool and calm. “What is your plan to bring them back?”

Voldemort’s lips peeled back in a grotesque parody of a smile. “We give them an incentive.”

Lucius paled, and Voldemort laughed. “I’d use you as bait, but I doubt she’s affected him so much that he’d risk his own life for yours.”

Malfoy relaxed. “So our orders are?”

“Take her family tonight.”

*          *          *          *          *

The High Priestess, Ginny, and Draco first visited an armory, deep in the catacombs beneath the temple complex. “None of these are the original scabbard,” Morgan said, gesturing to the shelves. “They won’t keep you from being wounded in battle, as the other would have. Still, they’re serviceable.”

Ginny tried on several, but she didn’t like any of them. “The sword hits my legs when I walk,” she complained.

Finally, she unearthed a sling that held the weapon at the hilt and tip, leaving the blade exposed. Ginny strapped it to her back and took a few experimental steps, testing its balance. The clear blade flashed in the torchlight. This was the one she wanted.

“You’ll have to learn to draw it without beheading yourself,” Draco said.

Ginny made a face at him when the Priestess’s back was turned. They followed the tall, white-garbed woman even deeper into the Earth, until the hard packed dirt floor of the tunnel stopped.

They were in a small room. A sarcophagus rose from the center of the floor and a giant statue of a woman stood guard at the other end. A fountain bubbled at her feet.

The High Priestess stepped aside and motioned for Ginny and Draco to enter before her. They walked slowly, their bare feet making no sound against the cold floor. They were both swamped with the feeling that they were on the most hallowed ground of the island.

Ginny drew even with the sarcophagus and looked down into the bearded face of the man carved on the lid. “It’s King Arthur.” She would’ve known him, those kind, tired eyes, even if she hadn’t recognized the stone sword in his hands as an image of the one now strapped to her back.

“Yes,” confirmed the Priestess.

The pair continued across the floor. Without thinking, Ginny slipped her hand into Draco’s. Even though they didn’t know exactly what to expect, they were both keenly aware that something solemn and life-changing was about to happen.

“The Mórrígan,” Ginny said, looking up into the statue’s face.

“She was carved by the great Merlin himself,” the High Priestess said, “with those tools you see before her.”

Sure enough, a hammer and chisel lay on the altar in front of the fountain.

“Drink,” the Priestess said, an invitation and an order.

Ginny and Draco shared a glance. Even though their link was closed off, she read the look in his eyes. He wanted to know if it was safe. She gave a slight nod, then dropped to her knees before the pool. She cupped her hands, dipped them in the water, and drank. The cold water was wonderfully clear, the most refreshing, nourishing thing she’d ever tasted. It was like drinking liquid sunlight. “What is this?” Ginny asked.

“Clarity,” the High Priestess replied. “You are the only mortals alive to drink from the cauldron of the great mother goddess. It bonds you. What’s more, it binds you. You can go now, knowing that you’ve done the goddess’s will.”

Draco looked awed, and a little scared. Ginny, though, felt a wonderful peace spread through her. For the first time since she could remember, she felt comfortable in her own skin.

“Are you ready?” Draco asked.

“Not yet,” Ginny said.

She picked up Merlin’s tools from the goddess’s feet, and carefully chiseled the thin line of a scar across the back of one of the statue’s hands. The tapping of metal on stone echoed against the walls, the only sound in the chamber. She returned the tools to the altar.

Ginny drew herself up as tall as she could, turned to Draco, and said, “Now I’m ready.”